How to Build
by moonlighten
Summary: July, 1560: The dissolution of the Auld Alliance is the beginning of the end of something Scotland's not even sure ever started. (Scotland/France.) One-shot with epilogue, complete. Part 6 of the Feel the Fear series.
1. Chapter 1

**Circa 790, Scotland**

-  
>The great ship brought many great people to his land; fine men in fine clothes, with titles, no doubt, just as grand.<p>

It also brought one of his own kind.

The earth's magic had buckled and bowed beneath them when they set foot to shore, and the aftershocks broke like waves against his body, alerting him to the new arrival even though he was many leagues distant at the time. The fae flocked to him too, carrying warnings of invasion, of blood and the sword, all articulated by the tense bows of their tiny bodies and bared teeth because their ululating voices could hold no words.

He ignored the dire auguries, however, as the other nation's steps were careful, and their tread was light. They did not come with war in their heart, he thought, but with a question; approaching as a supplicant.

And so he set out to meet them.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p>-<br>He had passed two days in his King's hold before the other nation made his acquaintance; two days of feasting and revelry which had left him sore-headed and heavy-limbed, fit for nothing more than huddling close to the hearth with wood and whittling knife in hand.

He recognised them at once, despite the refinement to both their figure and face – where childish softness had yielded much to the passage of years – and also to their clothing, which was a man's now even if they were not yet one: a linen shirt and breeches, silk-fringed tunic, and a long coat made from what looked to be marten skins. Back in Rome's day, when he had seen them over the wall, they had been snub-nosed and rosy cheeked, and as dainty as a cat except when they wrestled with his little brother. With their golden curls and sweet smiles, he had thought them as pretty as aught he'd ever seen, even after his little brother had haughtily informed him that she was in fact he, his name was Gallia, and he was an insufferable nuisance besides.

The name he was given now, however, alongside a bow that was deep enough to honour a king was Francia.

"Alba," he returned, because it was good a name as any other, given that he did not yet have one which encompassed all of him.

It seemed churlish to not also return the bow, but he was unsteady when he tried to get to his feet, and fumbled his knife, sending it skittering across the stone-flagged floor.

Francia quickly stooped to retrieve it, motioning for Alba to remain where he was. "What are you carving?" he asked in Rome's tongue as he straightened up again.

"An otter," Alba replied in kind, though it could just as easily be a stoat or even a fish. He had little talent for carving no matter how greatly he enjoyed it.

"Can I see?" Francia asked, handing Alba back his knife. Their fingers brushed, and although the contact was fleeting, Alba could feel that Francia's were ice cold.

"Only if you come and sit next to the fire with me," Alba said, although the words pretended a desire he did not in truth feel. He would much prefer to cast the result of his clumsy hacking into the flames before displaying it to another, but it would speak poorly of his king's hospitality if he let their guests' kingdom stand around freezing his blood, and the overture enticed Francia to take a seat, as Alba suspected it would.

The carving looked even rougher in Francia's fine-boned hands when Alba reluctantly passed it over to him, and nothing like an animal of any kind; just a lump of driftwood with chunks taken out here and there in a seemingly haphazard fashion. Francia, however, commented that he liked it very well indeed. His smile was just as sweet as Alba remembered.

"You can have it once it's finished," Alba found himself saying, for no reason other than that he hoped by doing so, that smile might linger a little longer.

If it did, Alba could not see it, for Francia ducked his head in thanks and his face was obscured by the fall of his hair. It was longer than when Alba last saw him, straighter too, but no less rich in hue than before, polishing to a fine golden lustre in every spot where the firelight touched it.

"You're very kind," Francia said, but the words sounded a little forced, as though prompted by politeness rather than any real gratitude.

Blood rushed to Alba's cheeks, and he wished he could take back the offer, snatch away the crude carving and grind it under his heel. He would not, though, as he had heard tell that Francia's men already thought both he and his people were barbarians, a conviction they were unlikely to overcome if he were to subject their nation to such rough behaviour.

Instead, he sought to turn their conversation away from wood and ill-considered gifts, saying, "You need our aid against the Saxons?"

"They're taking their chances while my king is away fighting the Saracens." Francia's eyes caught the light that had been burnishing his hair as he lifted his head again, and Alba was surprised to see how bright a blue they were. He had never been close enough to notice their colour before. "We need a diversion to keep them away from our coasts."

Alba shouldn't promise anything, not a single man or ship, because he had heard no word yet from his king on whether they could spare any. He did so anyway, because he discovered that the gentle hand Francia laid briefly on his knee made it impossible to not to.

This smile of Francia's was his prettiest yet.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p>-<br>Francia left three days later with Alba's king's covenant of alliance and a company of his soldiers, but without Alba's carving. Apparently, he had forgotten to ask for it, and Alba had been loath to remind him as he was determined that his first gift to Francia should be something far more worthy of the giving.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>8th July, 1560; Edinburgh, Scotland**

-  
>Every part of France evinced straight lines: the stiff carriage of his spine and shoulders, the firm set of his mouth, and even the brisk movements of his hands as he neatly and efficiently folded his clothes.<p>

"There's really no reason you have to go as well," Scotland said from the bedchamber's doorway. He'd been shooed there earlier by France, and harried along by irritated complaints about his getting in the way. "You're no soldier."

"No, I'm rather more than that," France said without even looking up from the opulent garment he was holding. There was a faint frown pinching at the skin between his brows, but Scotland honestly couldn't say whether it was prospect of his imminent departure that was troubling him, or the damage that might be wrought to his clothing for being so hastily packed. Scotland would have liked to think it was the former, but his fears have been steadily growing that it's more likely to be the latter. "And your brother and his queen would not be pleased if I remained, even were all my men to leave."

"I don't give two shits about what might please my brother, or his fucking queen," Scotland growled.

"But your people do," France pointed out, and his voice was so damnably calm, so damnably bloody reasonable, that it almost made Scotland want to rip away the jerkin or doublet or whatever the fuck it was, take hold of his shoulders and shake him until his teeth rattled, as it might elicit some sort of visceral reaction from him.

He wouldn't, because he'd never once laid his hands on France in anger, and he'd hate himself for it even in the unlikely event France chose to forgive him. Instead, he folded his arms across his chest and dug his fingers so deeply into his biceps that the pain brought tears to his eyes, and the urge eventually passed.

"Some of my people, maybe," he allowed through gritted teeth, "but not my queen, and not the Church."

That, at least, caused France to arch a brow, if nothing else. Perhaps in question of Scotland professing to care what the Church had to say on matters of any sort as he'd never been a pious man, nor made any pretensions to be, even before the numbers of reformers amongst his people started swelling.

"They all want peace, though," he said in the same even tones, "and we should do what we can not to jeopardise that."  
>-<p>

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>Circa 1050, Scotland**

-  
>"What do you think?" Alba asked, hoping that the question sounded nonchalant to his brother and not as laced with anxiety as it did to his own ears.<p>

"It's such a beautiful colour, Alba," Cymru said, the corners of his lips curling upwards as he skimmed his small fingers lightly over the fur. "And so soft, too."

"Do you think…?" The words stuck in Alba's throat, because he didn't really want to speak them, especially not to his brother. He'd made such a massive misstep before, though, and didn't want to risk another chance of failure, not after it had taken him so many years to work up his courage to try again. "Do you think France might like it, too?"

The delighted smile withered, falling from Cymru's lips, and it was all the answer Alba needed. It was a ridiculous idea, after all, just like the stone had been. Despite Cymru's youth, his head was full of sentimental nonsense planted there by his poems and songs, and he probably knew more about what was expected from courtship than Alba ever would.

"You could make something with it, though," Cymru suggested as Alba reached reflexively out to grab the pelt back from him, hoping that if he hid it away again, he could tuck his embarrassment alongside it.

Alba paused, curling his fingers tight against his palm to still them. "Like what?"

"There's not much you could do with one rabbit pelt," Cymru said, eyeing Alba's hand warily, perhaps reading the movement as a warning; the formation of a fist rather than indecision. "But if you had more… He's very fond of his clothes, isn't he? You could make him something to wear, I suppose."

Alba doubted anything he could fashion would be deemed fit to grace the court of France's king, but Cymru's suggestion was not, he thought, entirely without merit. "He's always so cold when he visits me, especially his hands. Some gloves probably wouldn't go amiss."

Cymu still looked a little uncertain. "Do you even know how to sew?"

Alba smacked him smartly on the back of his head, because although he might have the occasional bright idea, that didn't excuse him being an ungrateful little bastard.

"I mended yours and England's clothes often enough when you were both too small to be of any use, didn't I?" Alba had to admit, albeit only to himself, that his skills in that area were purely functional, good for ensuring his little brothers didn't flash their arses to all and sundry, and very little else. "The runt's probably better with a needle, though, I'll grant you. We can catch and skin the rabbits, and he can do the stitching."

Given that England snivelled and wailed over killing rabbits even to fill his own belly, Alba doubted he would complain about missing out on the hunting. He would complain about being expected to do his brother any sort of favour, however, but would capitulate eventually given the right encouragement as he did know what was good for him, notwithstanding the mulish recalcitrance which had sometimes given Alba cause to wonder otherwise in recent years.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p>-<br>Perhaps Alba should have given the speech he'd so carefully prepared first, instead of just thrusting the gloves at France because he couldn't bear to watch him shiver for a moment longer. Perhaps then he might not have received a blank stare that was so close a mirror to the expression he had worn when gifted the stone that Alba felt sick to his stomach. Perhaps he should have taken his own fucking advice and not set himself up to fail yet again, just as he has time after time for over two centuries. Perhaps he should –

"Did you make these yourself?" France asked.

"England and Cymru helped."

Normally, Alba would have denied it, but this way, if there was anything in particular that France did not like, he could at least blame it on his brothers' shortcomings to soften the blow. He'd had to guess at the size, and England's stubby fingers had struggled with the sewing towards the end, so some of the stitches were a little uneven. If they weren't so small, Alba would have been proud to wear them, but he'd learnt long ago that his and France's tastes very rarely aligned.

The smile he was graced with when France slipped on the gloves was nothing short of dazzling, however. It made his eyes glow brighter and his cheeks dimple in a way Alba had never seen before. It made Alba's heart skip beat after beat after beat until it faded and he felt he could finally catch his breath again.

It made him think he would do anything, anything at all, to be able to see it again.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>8th July, 1560; Edinburgh, Scotland**

-  
>Sometimes, Scotland felt that his excellent memory was a curse.<p>

He could, for example, recall exactly how many months and days it was over three years since France's previous fleeting visit; over the five years since they last fucked; over the hundred and fifty since they last slept in the same bed.

France had, he'd told Scotland then, grown tired of nights disturbed by Scotland's tendency to lash out in his sleep, fighting dreams whose details were the one thing he could very rarely recall. The request that they retire to separate bedchambers once they parted for the day had not vexed Scotland unduly – France did not like to be crowded, so it was not as though he was being denied the chance to fall asleep in his arms or anything of the like – until he discovered that it actually meant he'd hardly have chance to catch his breath before being handed his clothes and summarily dismissed at night.

This night, however, he'd been sent on his way before the sun had even begun to dip below the horizon, France pleading a aching head and fatigue. More likely, Scotland suspected, he had simply grown tired of their conversation, and of listening to Scotland do little better than beg him to stay. He could be as obdurate as a mule, and just as resistant to words, whether harsh or gentle, whenever he dug his heels in this hard.

Usually, Scotland would capitulate to his desires in the end, because it was so very seldom that he was asking for something that Scotland wasn't willing, ultimately, to yield, even if he might prefer not to do so. It was not often that Scotland talked himself hoarse, debased himself by near pleading for France to please change his mind, but he had felt oddly as though he were teetering on the edge of a precipice, hands grasping desperately at the last solid thing that might keep him from slipping over.

He had no idea where the peculiar fancy had come from – it sounded more like something Wales would write in one of his god awful poems than one of his own thoughts – but it seemed apt, nevertheless. His stomach was cold and hollow, and his muscles quivered in the anticipatory way they did in the quiet moments before battle, as though his body were truly preparing itself to face some danger he could not otherwise perceive; some catastrophic fall.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>1295, Scotland**

-  
>Scotland had expected to feel different once the documents were signed.<p>

He'd thought he'd perhaps experience a deeper connection to France, some sort of greater understanding and closeness, but all there had been to signify it afterwards, this meaningful change he had envisioned, was both of their names side by side on a piece of parchment. He'd laughed at himself for being foolish later, when he caught a moment alone, because it was a mutual defence treaty, after all – a promise of protection between their kings – not a fucking marriage proposal.

The subsequent celebrations were extravagant enough that they wouldn't disgrace even a royal wedding, however, with raucous entertainments, fine food in abundance and the best of France's wines flowing freely. Scotland partook the latter two until both his stomach and his head felt fit to split in two; a sensation that hurried him away from the castle, away from the noise and the heat and the stone pressing down, before he could embarrass himself by either throwing up or passing out, both of which seemed like imminent possibilities.

Outside, the night was crisp, but only cold enough to nip and not bite which, although admittedly more comfortable, did little to ease the dull pounding at Scotland's temples. His legs also seemed unable to carry him despite his attempts at urging them onwards, slowly buckling beneath him until he sank down to the ground barely a dozen ells outside the castle walls.

His fae took his resultant supine sprawl on the dew-damp grass as an invitation, and perched on his chest and outspread arms to shower him with their clumsy concern. Scotland stared up at the stars through the fine gauze of their massed wings and concentrated on the rhythm of his own heartbeat in order to drown out their distressed chittering, because he lacked the energy to even shoo them away.

He awoke some indeterminate time later to the fae's piercing alarm calls and the prickling of their sharp little claws digging into his skin as they launched themselves into the air en masse. He sat up quickly, reaching automatically for the sword that would normally sit as his hip before he even opened his eyes. When he did, it took a moment for his vision to adjust, not only to the darkness, but to the swirling maelstrom of bright magic trailing in the wake of the faint figure approaching him. It was a familiar maelstrom, however, which relaxed Scotland more than it should, given that he'd apparently been sleeping so deeply out here in the open that he'd failed to sense it building.

He told the fae they had nothing to fear in Gaidhlig, before raising his voice to hail France.

"I've been looking for you," France called back, annoyance clear in his voice even before he drew close enough that Scotland could just about see it in his expression.

He threw himself down next to Scotland then, uncharacteristically heedless of the harm the wet ground might do to his court finery. Judging by the way he swayed as he settled himself, though, he had enjoyed as much of his wine as Scotland himself, which probably went to some way towards safeguarding him against such concerns.

"I needed some air," Scotland said. "Too much wine, I think."

"That's a shame," France drawled, holding out a brimming tankard Scotland hadn't noticed he was carrying, "because I brought more."

Scotland should refuse, because his mind was more than befogged enough already, but he accepted because France was offering, and _that_, he could not refuse. The metal of the tankard still held some of France's warmth when he lifted it to his lips, but he tried not to notice.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>8th July, 1560; Edinburgh, Scotland**

There were a great many things that Scotland did not allow himself to think of when it came to his relationship with France.

He did not think about France's other lovers, past or present, although he knew at least some of their names thanks to England, who had recounted those few he had been aware of with all of the usual spiteful relish he took in any chance to twist a knife in Scotland's guts. He did not think of how little they saw of one another, or how seldom his letters got answered, or how infrequently his touches were returned.

He'd been carefully not thinking about any of these things for nigh on two centuries, but tonight they kept on bobbing back up to the surface of his mind never mind how firmly he tried to keep them held down.

As did the other words England had shared in their last conversation about France; the ones that Scotland had dismissed, because what did his brother know about devotion, about love?

_You're pathetic_, he'd said. _He takes everything you give him and still asks for more, and what do you get in return?_

_He'd drain you dry without a second thought if he could, and you'd let him, wouldn't you?_

At the time, Scotland had thought it a clumsy effort on his brother's part to make him doubt France, and push him in consequence towards the alliance England seemed determined the two of them should make. The possibility that the sentiment might be born of concern had never once crossed his mind, because it had been hundreds of years since England last even pretended to care about his well-being.

It still didn't, but the words echoed around his head, regardless, and the hollow feeling spread from Scotland's stomach to his chest, where no amount of wine seemed sufficient to fill it. He continued to try, nevertheless, drinking cup after cup after cup from the cask France had presented to him, claiming it was an excellent vintage Scotland should savour.

He couldn't taste any of it.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>1295; Scotland**

-  
>Scotland couldn't read France's expression well enough in the moonlight to gauge his reaction, and when he spoke, his words held no clue; no emotion Scotland could readily name.<p>

"But you cannot die, _Écosse_."

Scotland should have laughed it off as a joke. He would have laughed it off if he'd been sober, but then he never would have been so foolish as to make such promises, no matter that they filled his heart and his head and his mouth whenever he was with France. However, after almost five hundred years, the pressure of not speaking them felt too great, especially with France huddled close against his side, sharing his meagre warmth and welcoming the touch he so often seemed to invite but had always shied away from accepting before.

"I would, though," Scotland said instead, his voice low and ragged, but insistent nevertheless. "If you needed that of me, I would."

His only reply was the sound of France's breathing – barely audible above the susurrus of the fae's wings as they shifted uneasily – and the slow stiffening of his body as his muscles bunched tight. It appeared that even now, after all these years of looks and hints and endless fucking hope, it was too soon, too much, and the nausea that Scotland had thought passed began stirring his guts again. He should have fought harder to stay silent, because it was better to keep hold of that thin thread of hope, surely, than to know it would never –

And then all of a sudden, France was twisting out from beneath Scotland's arm; moving quickly, but drawing closer and not away.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>9th July, 1560; Edinburgh, Scotland**

-  
>For once, Scotland hadn't been roused by the sun rising, but by the sound of movement from the room next to his.<p>

France had, for the first time in their acquaintance, risen before him, and now had Scotland's servants running hither and thither, carrying chests and boxes; far more luggage, it seemed, than he had first arrived with.

Scotland rested his shoulders against the doorjamb of his own bedchamber as he watched them, because he feared he would be unable to stay standing if he did not. He often woke feeling just as tired as when he took to his bed, however long he might have slept, but his muscles felt more strained than even one of his more restless nights would allow, and his head was still spinning from the wine and exhaustion besides.

"Are you not even going to stay and break your fast?" he asked when France finally emerged, dressed in his travelling clothes and pulling on silk gloves.

"No." The word was spoken curtly, with an air of finality, as though to pre-empt and thus curtail the arguments Scotland might try and make to persuade him to linger a little longer.

It wasn't necessary, as the wine hadn't helped Scotland think of any, just as it hadn't helped quell that vertiginous feeling that he was but one breath, one step away from something calamitous.

"When will I see you again?"

France stopped fiddling with the tiny buttons on his gloves, and he tilted his head towards Scotland. Their eyes met briefly. France's were shuttered and completely expressionless. "The next time you visit my country, I suppose. I do not think it would be wise for me to return here for quite some time."

Scotland wondered how long that would be. Another three years? Five? Ten? However long it took for Scotland's official duties to next necessitate a journey to the continent, he thought, because it had been many years since he'd last been issued a personal invitation to visit.

(Almost two hundred, and he still remembered the wording exactly.)

The prospect of such a potentially long separation appeared to faze France not at all, however, but Scotland felt off balance again, unsteady enough that he had to lean even more of his weight against the solid wood beneath his back to keep from losing his footing. The notion that he should be grabbing hold of France was even more overwhelming than the night before, but even in extremity, his mind remained empty of ideas on how to achieve that.

Apart from one, but it was something Scotland had discarded time and time again, because it was either still too early to say those words even now, or else, as he was beginning to fear, it was far, far too late.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p>-<br>**Notes:**

- According to what might well be legend, Charlemagne approached the Scottish king Achaius to form an alliance between the Scots and Franks to protect France against Saxon invasion. Charlemagne was apparently so impressed by Achaius that he offered his daughter's hand in marriage, and he also went on to employ Scottish bodyguards.

- The treaty signed in 1295 by John Balliol (King of Scots) and Philip IV of France against Edward I of England is normally taken to mark the start of the Auld Alliance.

- The parts of this fic set in the sixteenth century take place in the days after the announcement of the peace treaty proclaimed in the names of Elizabeth, Queen of England, and François and Mary, King and Queen of France and Scotland. (Later known as the Treaty of Edinburgh.) This peace was brokered to break the Siege of Leith, and its terms demanded that all bar 120 French troops leave Scotland. It is generally considered to mark the end of the Auld Alliance.

- The Siege of Leith was a a twelve year encampment of French troops at Leith, a port near Edinburgh. It began during the Rough Wooing when Scotland invited French troops to help repel English incursion, and a group of anti-French Protestant lords (the Lords of the Congregation) eventually appealed to Queen Elizabeth I for English aid to end it.


	2. Epilogue

_I originally wrote this as part of an ongoing collection of short fics concerning the Brit bros platonically sharing beds, but as it works as an epilogue of sorts to HtB, I'm including it here instead._

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>Circa 1590; Kingdom of France**

-  
>Scotland always feels raw after they've fucked, like some vital part of him has been flayed away, exposing everything within himself that he usually keeps secret and hidden.<p>

It used to terrify him, as there's little he guards as zealously as the privacy of his inner self, but the passage of time and its paradoxical disappointments have taught him that he has nothing to fear from France in that regard.

As soon as they have both found completion in their coupling, France moves away from him. Turns his back.

Tonight is no exception.

Whilst the added warmth of France's body slowly fades from his skin, Scotland stares up at the bed's dark canopy, unseeing. Silent and still despite the violence of his thoughts: his own desires engaged in their centuries' old battle with his knowledge of France's.

He wants to curl an arm around France's waist and pull him close again. Perhaps even press a kiss to his temple, his jaw, the curve of his cheek. Every inch of exposed skin.

The yearning is stronger than ever, because Scotland has yet to shake that vertiginous sensation that had been birthed during France's last visit to his home. The ground they have both stood upon, side by side, for the past three hundred years feels to be crumbling beneath Scotland's feet, and he wants nothing more than to cling to France to prevent himself from falling along with it.

But this particular battle has only ever had one victor, no matter how many times it has been fought.

France hates to be held; calls it smothering. He claims to find many things smothering, though Scotland has long suspected that they all stem from the same root: that emotion of Scotland's that has never been given voice between them.

Because he cannot have what he wants, Scotland allows himself the indulgence of quenching another need. One that France has never protested against.

He turns, too, onto his side and then lets his eyes drink their fill.

Shadows conceal most of the details of France's body – huddling beneath the smooth curve of his shoulder blades and pooling in the small of his back – but his long, lean outline is lovely in its own way.

His hair is splayed in disarray across his pillow, baring the slim column of his neck, and it looks almost black in contrast to the pale fabric, except for those few strands which catch the flickering candlelight and throw it back in brilliant gold.

The very first time he had seen France – dancing and laughing and so beautiful that Scotland had indeed felt like he had been physically struck upon seeing him – Scotland had wondered, dazedly, if the other kingdom's hair would feel hot if he were to put a hand to it, given how brightly it shone.

Though Scotland's curiosity had long been satisfied on that score, his fingers still ache with that same old urge to touch France's hair, perhaps even comb out its tangles. But France has often told him he is too rough to attempt such a thing, so Scotland keeps his hands to himself and simply admires it.

With his attention thus caught and nothing to mark the passage of time but the culmination of France's shallow breaths, it takes Scotland longer than it maybe should to realise that something is wrong.

On any other night, France would either have demanded to be taken again by now, if his spirit had risen upon resting, or else he would have ordered Scotland out of the bed so he can find his own.

"Shall I leave, France?" Scotland asks, tentative with anxiety, not hope.

He does not expect an invitation to stay, but France's silence is troubling. Scotland wonders if his presence has been forgotten entirely. That would be worse than any dismissal.

After a long, dreadful pause that seems to confirm Scotland's fears, France asks, "Do you want to?" His voice creaks dryly.

'No,' Scotland wants to say. 'No, of course not.' And, 'I never do.'

The words have claws, though, and stay lodged at the back of his throat. He can't help but think that the question is some kind of test, but as he does not know what France wants to hear, he cannot answer it.

France has been adamant for years that it was best that they sleep apart, because Scotland so seldom rested easily at night, but, then again, would France have given him a choice if he was not prepared to endure that outcome? Perhaps –

France's low snarl suggests that his patience has run out. If there was a correct reply, Scotland had been too slow in giving it to make any odds now.

"Do whatever you like. Stay, go; they're both the same to me," France says, each word hard and pointed like the head of an arrow. "I do not care, _Écosse_."

The way France draws out the sibilance at the end of that name – not his, not _theirs_; the one France hasn't used for, god… for an age – sounds like a snake's hiss. It sounds _venomous_.

The world entire seems to shift beneath Scotland, so violently that he thinks there's little chance of being able to keep his footing now. He feels sick, his heart pounds, and a cold sweat breaks out on his brow.

But he stays besides France, nevertheless. Because France had given him the blessing to do so. Because he does not know how long it might be before he's offered such an honour again.

He does not sleep, though. He dreads finding out what the morrow may bring too much for that.


End file.
